Change in the Waves
by crack-the-glowsticks
Summary: In which Kurt is bad, very very bad, and Blaine is just a confused good boy on the other side of the world.   This is going somewhere I swear. M for language and later smut.
1. Chapter 1

"Mr Hummel?"

"Yeah," Burt managed to grunt. It was two am in the morning, and who the fuck ever called that early. Unless…

"It's Constable Stuart, I'm sorry sir, but there's been an accident. We're going to need you to come to St. Joan's"

"What… What happened?"

"Just come to the hospital, please."

Nothing made sense at first, but then it sunk in.

Kurt.

So he did, rousing his second wife and dragging her to the hospital to discover the state of his already broken son.

But his mind was reeling with a hundred thousand possibilities he'd had to think of far too many times, and it all came crashing down on him in the middle of some deserted main road, behind the wheel that had made the trip too often.

"Carole, what the fuck am I going to do with him? What if he's needed another stomach pumping? Or he's been in a fight and his eye's gouged out? What if he's not breathing? What if he's on life support and I'm going to need to turn the machine off. Carole, what if I'm going to lose him for good this time?"

At which Burt Hummel, the man of steel, broke down into pieces on the side of a deserted main road, into the comforting arms of his wife, who had no idea what to say. Because her son, Finn; was a good boy, and he hadn't been able to change Kurt. Because Kurt had been something like her best friend, but he'd fallen off the road too long ago to remember, and Burt was right. This trip had been made far too many times, and yes, in a way, good news had always followed, but God, that kid was so so broken. And she couldn't bear to see both her husband, and her son, the two men who had saved both her and Finn, hurting in this way anymore.

"Shh, Burt; he's going to be fine, I promise." But she couldn't. Because what if he wasn't. What if he was on the verge of death, and they'd never get the chance to really change him, the way they'd only just been speaking about.

"I just. I can't do this again."

And Carole knew, just what he was talking about.

~~~OOO~~~

Kurt's eyes fluttered open, finally fighting his way out of that drug induced haze he shouldn't have known so well.

Nurses scurry in and out, test after test, until finally, his father enters the hospital room.

"What – what happened dad?"

But Burt can't answer. Not just yet. Because the tears are still streaming down his face, and he's just so grateful he still has a boy, broken as he may be, lying somewhat safe in this hospital. But he knows, God damn it he knows, that he can never do this again.

"You were. You were in an accident Kurt. You're – you're lucky you're alive."

And Kurt finally looks down to survey his body. Covered in gauze and plaster, a drip in his arm and machines beeping a hundred different things.

"You had to have another stomach pumping before they could operate fully. You had enough alcohol in your system to kill you enough as it was. You have fractured ribs, a bruised spine, and a dislocated shoulder. You're so fucking lucky you're still breathing. The doctors say you shouldn't be. But you are."

Kurt never cried. No matter how many times he'd been in this bed, with the feeling of emptiness in his stomach or his heart measured on a machine. But he could remember what had happened the night before, and the darkness and the sound of engines and breaking bottles clouded his eyes, and he was a mess. So broken for the last time.

"Dad… Dad I'm so so – sorry. I I I don't know…"

"Shh son, it's going to be alright, you just sleep now, and we'll talk about this all later. Shh, go to sleep."

And Burt should have hated Kurt, right at that very minute. For forcing him out of bed at two in the morning to discover a broken boy lying with nothing in his stomach and machines everywhere. For Causing a hundred years with of tears to drip onto the linoleum. For reading pamphlets about fa r off boarding schools and other types of recovery programmes.

But he couldn't. Because Kurt was his little boy. No matter how much weed he smoked or ecstasy he took, or how much alcohol he drunk or how much he hurt anyone else. Because his boy was broken, and he was the only thing he had to remind him of his wife. So he combed his hair through his fingers and sang to him a song that hadn't been heard for ten long years.

Kurt dozed off into a land of drugged dreams, and Burt never left his side.

"I love you kid. I don't want you to ever forget that."


	2. Chapter 2

Fifteen, he counted. Fifteen cracks in the tiles above his head. Fifteen different beeps he could hear. Fifteen days since he'd last been in this bed. Fifteen minutes until visiting hours commenced. Fifteen days until his life was apparently, going to change, as to why, he would find out in fifteen minutes.

Kurt closed his eyes, in hope for succumbing to sleep, hopefully one with less nightmares than the rage of fits he'd encountered whilst unconscious, if you even dream when you're unconscious, he wasn't quite sure.

Kurt dreams however, were not colourful and wonderful in the slightest. Oh no. They were filled with drunken brawls and the freedom felt when he'd smoked too much he'd forgotten his name. And of a worried father; awaiting the phone for a call to say _'I'm okay dad,' _when really, he was expecting an officer at his door in the middle of the night, or Kurt's car on the late news. There were loud moans of boys and girls who he'd been too drunk to remember names, or where they'd gone in the morning. There were wonderful colours that combined a bright blue to the opaque, and the palest pink to a dark black. There were sounds of birds, but always strangled and dying, and of choppy water asking to my dived into, head first, and to never surface. His dreams were of over-turning cars and empty bottles and powder on a credit card. Of lost clothes, and smuggled cigarettes, and always being careful to be careless. There were boys with no pants and girls with no names, drinks with no taste and grass that was blue, water too cold and nights too bright. In his dreams, Kurt was never whole. Because his dreams were nightmares and his nightmares were his reality. And screams and tears always managed to secrete their way out in some magical way, which could never be taken back, which made machines to crazy things, and his mind explode with a thousand bad thoughts.

And whilst they tried to wake him up, all he could think was, fuck, what the fucking hell have I done and why doesn't it feel as good as it used to when it was all colours and sounds. And when the hell did I become so fucked up.

"Kurt."

Go away.

"Kurt. Kurt."

Now there was another voice.

"Kurt Elijah Hummel, you wake up this second."

There was his father. More of a reason to continue to be absorbed in the way the yellows and the oranges meshed together to make blue.

But then the poking started, and that would only bring on another round of bad memories and blinding lights, and he was too tired for that, so he cocked an eye open to see his father looking concerned, and his _mother_ looking scared, and his brother looking confused.

"Finn, chill out, dude, you'll get worry lines if you're not careful."

It's funny, Kurt thought, that despite the reckless things he did, and how often he would forget his own name, he prized beauty, in and out, over much else. Huh.

"Sorry, Kurt. You okay little bro?" Finn sounded genuinely concerned for him, and that was a touching gesture in itself.

"Yeah, I'll be right."

"Cool."

But Burt, nor Carole, looked convinced. Neither did the Doctor. And as an examination took place of his body, and fractures and bruises and whatever else was wrong with him, he could dread the silence that carried, because of whatever the words would carry.

Finally, his doctor left.

~~~OOO~~~

There it was again, another nightmare.

But this time, it was something different. Not the past, not the present, maybe the future, or a side effect of whatever was pumping through his veins.

Because this time, he was walking down a stretch of sand he'd never seen before, surrounded by waves a colour he hadn't even known existed. And up above was a different coloured sun, surrounded by whiter than white clouds, on a perfect blue sky. And there were footprints everywhere, but there were no people, which was sort of the nicest thing. Because it was just Kurt, Kurt smiling and dancing with the waves, and coming alive in the sun, counting breaths he took as they matched to patterns over his head.

And up ahead, there was a silhouette moving towards him slowly, mirroring the way he danced, and the laugh echoed, and closer and closer it came, every move was the same, but the sun was too blinding, and the waves were too pretty for Kurt to make a face, until, there he was. Right in front of him.

Not another person, who was a magician at copying actions, oh no. But a boy with the same quiff in his hair, the same chest that had lost its shirt, in hope of finding relief from the sun, the same blue-green-colour-that-has-no-name-eyes. Because there, staring right back at him, was himself.

But not really. Because his eye was purpling, and his lip bleeding, scratches lined his face, and scars and bruises dotted his arms and chest and legs. Blood was caking on his hair, and eyebrows, and his eyes were different. Pain. Or maybe it was flying. But, they're really the same thing aren't they.

They stared at each other for what seemed like eternity. But the sun never moved from it's spot and the waves never stopped crashing, and neither of the boys blinked. It was just perfectly whole Kurt, looking into broken and lost Kurt and seeing everything and nothing, and tearing because, what the hell had he become. And shattered Kurt was looking at sculptured Kurt and wishing, hoping, praying to whomever, that he wasn't really as broken as he looked, and that if he was, he'd find his way back to being that boy again.

Because both the boys were lost, and confused, and the waves kept breaking, and footsteps kept forming, but no one else walked the way or danced in the waves as the two just tried to figure everything out.

~~~OOO~~~

His father and _'mother'_ looked so stern, so set, so lost and broken and unwilling to release the next words. But Finn had gone in search of snacks, and the doctors were coming back soon and they had to start making arrangements.

"I can see whatever the hell it is peering from your eyes, so why don't you both just come out with it already." Because, fuck, he was angry, he had a thousand different suspicions and he prayed that none of them were true.

"Kurt, you're going to Australia."

Well, Kurt hadn't been expecting that.

And then he drifted off into the land of breaking waves and dancing clouds to hate himself some more.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm terribly sad tonight, and I don't know what they gave me to make me sleep, but it produced this. Please tell me if you like it or hate it, because I need inspiration it seems.**

_**~~~OOO~~~**_

_"Kurt, you're going to Australia."_

That was the last thing he recalled his father and step mother telling him before he blacked out into a dreamland on a beach. What did they mean, Australia?

But he had woken up, and Burt and Carole had gone, left, visiting hours being over, and he was lost, and confused. Australia. No. Why.

Following that doze, he found it impossible to sleep again, and he was sick of all the thoughts (because he was a head case, he'd heard the psychiatrist say, and his thoughts were horrible). So instead, he picked up a book his father had left him, and began to read. _"The Power of One."_ It was called. God, Kurt hadn't read this book in what felt like forever. But as the night grew on and the clock ticked, he could remember why he loved it so much. Because it reminded him that even the smallest person, if they had a dream to be somebody big, could make it, no matter what the world said.

To his fourteen year old mind, the first time he'd ever picked it up, it made him feel invincible. It made him believe that he could soar and fly and change the world with the flick of a switch and the dream of a dream. Because, it taught him that it was okay to be a little bit different, which Kurt had always known he was, but it was about the people you meet and the places you go and the choices you make that help you land whatever you want.

So Kurt dreamt a dream of flying. Of being somebody, more than just a small town nobody who never went anywhere. He dreamt of the bright lights of Broadway and the haze of London, the romance of Paris, and the happiness of Rome. He dreamt of love, of making mistakes and learning from them. Of smiling his way until the day he died and never looking back on anything. He dreamt a life of happiness, a long life of happiness.

But then he turned fifteen and he forgot how to dream. Because now he was a big boy and started four years of hell that made him stop and hate everything. David became his new best friend, and they spent most days throwing kids who weren't up to their standards in dumpsters, and smoking whatever Dave's brother had sold them behind the gymnasium. And Kurt's weekends began to be full of alcohol, and more drugs, and cigarettes (by sixteen and a half years of age, he'd reached three packets a day on the worst of them), and eventually sex as well. Because his eyes grew hazy at party after party after party, and he'd never known the girl's names, and sometime's; he never even asked the boy's names either. Because he was empty, he just didn't know it. And sex and money and drugs and booze just made the darkness go away for a little while so that he could breathe.

Kurt was confused, because Dave would kiss him when he was drunk, and they didn't remember that no; they weren't supposed ot, because they hated 'fags.' And no; Kurt wasn't supposed to touch Dave like that, and not remembering his name shouldn't be an excuse. And no; Dave shouldn't do the things he did because they were oth too drunk to know what they were doing, until someone would walk in and call them names that they would never remember the next morning.

And Kurt became confused, and smoked more pot, and skulled more vodka, and rolled a dozen too many cigarettes, and fucked far too many girls. Kurt didn't know who he was any more. Because he'd forgotten what it was to be fourteen and read a book that mad eyou feel invincible, and dream that you could fly. He'd forgotten that his father told him that he mattered and that he should never forget that. Sometimes, he forgot that he'd been in love with his step-brother once, and that he'd never really fallen for a girl. But Kurt got the most confused, when he was slipped something in his drink on drunken nights, and swept up by a car because he didn't even know he had legs any more.

The hospitals became too familiar, but none so much as the holding cell at the Sherrifs office down the road. His file became the size of the largest Harry Potter book (God, Kurt missed reading those) and his dad tried to send him to see someone, and he tried a variety of someone's. But Kurt always opted out to smoke instead, because he was a fucked up boy, this he knew, but he had just given up on living, sort of. Which was sad, because Kurt had lost the sparkle in his eyes, and the touch of wonderment he'd placed on the earth was long forgotten, and some nights were so empty that he would take it out on his poor wrists until there was nothing more to bleed, except for tears which no one else ever saw, because he was supposed to be top shit, wasn't he. The saddest boys are always the most screwed up.

Burt and Carole and Finn and his best-friend-from-childhood Mercedes watched him spiral out of control, piece by piece, until he was broken so much there was no salvaging the reeckage. But they did not know what they could do. Kurt wouldn't talk, he never talked. He just smoked and drank and fucked whoever he could find when he was lonely.

And he began to watch the ticking's of the clock. Because someone had once told him that somebody, somewhere in this world, kills himself every forty seconds, and most nights, Kurt would count to forty and take deep breaths and say that he would be the next victim, but he never was, because the ticks were too pretty to drown out that time.

Until he got hit by cars, and beat up by tattooed men who had no idea he was just a confused little boy, and touched, and gouged, and punched and hit and hurt over and over and over again until there was no going back.

Which landed Kurt in hospital for the second time in three weeks, back to staring at the cracks in the ceiling, wishing Burt and Carole would just tell him about why Australia.

Kurt was tired. Tired of having open eyes and counting cracks and cobwebs. Of doctors and blood tests and plaster and psychiatrists. Of feeling and thinking and hurting and being broken. But most of all, what was the saddest, was that Kurt was tired of living, because he knew he wasn't really living at all anymore.

~~~OOO~~~

The hours passed and trhe book became finished. Kurt felt a little better, a little brighter, a little more hopeful, which is a lot to think when you're stuck in hospital with so much damage.

But his father and mother drifted in, with a woman who looked like her smile was painted on, which scared Kurt; because he was sick of fake people.

"Hi Kurt."

Great, even her voice was a little bit fake.

"My name's Belle and I've been assigned to be your social worker."

Wait what. Social worker. What the fuck were they on about.

"Kurt, I know you must be confused, let me explain. A couple of months ago, your father and step-mother approached my office, with a large amount of concern for your condition. They never knew where you were, or who you were with or when you were coming home. I know you scared them sick, and it was horrifying to watch. I told them to wait it out, that maybe you would get a little bit better. However; you didn't. Your actions escalated, and now you're in hospital; again, with a vast array of injuries and psychological damage. Well; in conjunction with your parents, and a team of psychologists and psychiatrists, we have decided to try you on a new programme."

Then Burt interjected.

"Kurt, you matter, you know that right. And I love you. And you must be thinking 'why are they sending me to Australia, they hate me.' Well Kurt, we don't hate you. We just hate who you've become. We love you, so we're sending you to aa family in Australia, who have a fantastic reputation of being able to sort teenagers, like yourself, out. We've spoken to the Anderson's, and they'd be happy to help you fix yourself there, before you come back here."

Burt's words became entangled with sobs in the back of his throat, so Carole took over, patting her husband's hand.

"Kurt, we love you, I hope you know that. We just, we can't be that scared again. We can't think you're never going to wake up. Please don't hate us for wanting you to live."

Kurt just stared at the ceiling. What the hell was Australia anyway. And these Anderson's. He knew nothing about them. And they sounded strict. Ugh. He could tell there would be no cigarettes or drinking or sex. And he didn't think he wanted to deal with that. Even though he knew it would make him a better person.

"…you leave on Friday." He'd droned Belle out with his thoughts.

Friday.

Fuck.

That was, he counted, in five days' time.

"This Friday?"

"Yes Kurt, you need to be there before anything like this happens again. I'm leaving you some brochures for you to read, and I'll come back to see you before you're discharged tomorrow, just to clear up everything one final time. I know this will be the best experience for you Kurt, please don't hate your parents for wanting you to be a better person."

Belle left. And his parents tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. Australia.

"How long?"

Burt looked confused.

"How long will I be there?"

"Oh, um, a couple of months, maybe? However long it takes."

"Okay, can you please go no, I'd like to sleep."

And Burt and Carole kissed him on the head, told him they loved him more than anything, and walked out the door.

And Kurt curled up into a ball, and did something he hadn't done for the longest time.

He cried himself to sleep with no intention of ever stopping.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm sick, my stomach hurts, and I'm tired and beginning to stress about exams. And I'm on some new tablets for my insomnia, so once again, I don't really know what this even is. Or if I like it, so your reviews would be quite helpful. I'm also going to dedicate this chapter to Maddie because it's her birthday today and she's beautiful. Anyways, I hope you somewhat enjoy whatever this is, please don't be afraid to review!**

**~~~OOO~~~**

"Kurt, honey, are you sure you have everything? Jacket, phone, camera…"

Kurt couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes Carole, for the seventeenth time this hour, I am sure I have everything."

Carole smiled, as Burt led the way to the airport, bypassing cars parked in a pretty array of colours that shouldn't have made Kurt smile, because it was all too crowded and that ticked him off. But he was just glad, in a way, that he was escaping this bustle of never ending life, at least for a little while, no matter how Australia turned out to be.

Carole and Burt locked eyes whilst Kurt was staring at the cars and hearing the planes roar over his head. And Carole sped up to lead the party, and telling Finn that no, he couldn't just 'blow this off to go see Rachel.' Burt held back to walk beside Kurt.

"You 'right Kurt?" He asked in his gruff voice.

And suddenly, a pang overtook Kurt; it held him rooted to the spot for a good half a minute or so. Who was he? Where had he gone? Where was the four year old that swung higher than high whilst holding his parents hands? Where was the eight year old who spent nights crying for the mother he'd never get back? Where was the eleven year old that kissed a boy and liked it? Where was the boy with dreams of flying, of breaking free of chains, of being a somebody, an anybody rather than a Lima loser? Where had the boy with the dreams and heart and soul and whispers gone? But Kurt wasn't supposed to think those things any more. He was supposed to not give a flying fuck about the fact that he couldn't read because his eyes were always bloodshot. Or that he probably had God knows what diseases. Or that he couldn't remember the name of his favourite drink anymore, because he was already hammered and stoned half to death by the time it came to drinking it. He wasn't supposed to care about the fact that he was now a Lima loser. Because he was no longer fourteen year old with a dream Kurt any more. No, he was so so different. So desperate to just have fun and forget the way his mother had said "I love you" or the way his dad had stopped looking at him. Or the boy that he thought he loved tell him he didn't love him because he wasn't a fag.

Kurt wasn't supposed to care about anything anymore. But then again, he never thought he would be in this situation. But hours away from gallivanting (but not really) to the other side of the world, to a house of tight arse rich bitches who would probably just throw him out the minute he fucked up. And he never thought he would be separated from his dad, who was the only thing that kept the horrible boyhood nightmares away at night. His dad, who he loved more than anything, despite everything.

Kurt had never hated himself as much as he did in that moment of realisation. Who the fuck had he become.

No! No! No! No! He banished all the thoughts away from the tip of his tongue to the blackest cavern of his mind, focusing his energy on perfecting 'you're sending me away? Good! I don't even care about anything anymore!' attitude.

Burt watched him as he stood glued to the footpath. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to the boy right at that moment. But he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Not right now. Because he was madder at his son than he had ever been, and he wished he wasn't. So he stuck with a, "Hurry up, Kurt, you're going to miss your plane."

"Oh yeah, right, sure, coming dad."

~~~OOO~~~

Kurt didn't do planes. He really truly didn't. They were the bane of his existence. He hated heights more than he hated clowns, and outer space, and being lonely, which was a lot of hate.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Somehow, he didn't think they'd give him a Rum and Coke or a Vodka Soda anytime today, so he went with a Diet Coke.

The liquid felt refreshingly cool as it slid down his throat, revelling a tad of the tension that being 40 000 feet in the air brought Kurt.

He closed his eyes and let the music (but not really – it was all shouting, really) fill up the caverns of his body and make him think that he was safe, with feet planted firmly on the ground. And he let the music speak to him, and he thought, and he dreamt, and he forgot that he was so scared. And he wasn't just scared of the plane he was on, or the fact that there was turbulence rumbling his seat, or that he was God knows how long away from home. No, he was scared of, for the first time, the future. Of what Australia would do to him, and what the Anderson's would be like. What they'd let him do, how the people thought of him, but most importantly, if he'd change. Because, he really wanted to change. Not just for himself, because that would be selfish, but for his father, and the woman as good as his mother, and the boy-he-was-in-love-with-turned-brother, and the best friend's he'd lost in his weed induced haze.

So the music took his toll, and the coke nulled him to sleep (coke wasn't supposed to do that, but then again…)

~~~OOO~~~

Stepping off the plane had to be one of the best experiences in his life. If he had been seven years younger, and not in the position he was in, he would have gotten down on all fours and kissed the ground for being so still.

Kurt had slept through pretty much all of the trip over the Pacific, waking up sporadically to watch a movie now and then, or read the book he'd half-asleep-ily pushed into the side of his travel bag before he'd left whenever it was. It was a good book, even if he was too busy on loving the ground for remembering what it was called.

And then, he remembered where he was, and why he'd slept for the good part of fourteen hours in an uncomfortably shaped chair besides a man too big for his own seat, whose snores could rival the sound of an Apollo space shuttle. He looked around, his pretty eyes searching for some sense of recognition, a banner, or a sign, or even a "Kurt – "

A voice that sounded like home broke through the air, and he looked around, and caught sight of a woman who was doing well for her age, dolled up in good jeans and a nice jumper, not thick, not thin. Kurt approached her, and he noticed the kindness that seemed to dwell in her chocolaty eyes. She opened her arms wider than wide when he reached her, and pulled her in for a hug. God. Kurt missed hugs like this. Because this woman smelt like honey and soap and lemon and milk and baking and cleaning and sleep and television and everything that a home and a mother was supposed to smell like. "Welcome to Australia, Kurt." And then she embraced him again, and he thought he could hear sniffs that signalled tears, but he decided that was probably just all in his head, because they didn't even know each other.

"I'm Belinda by the way – Belinda Anderson. Your mother away from home."

God she sounded like home, like someone had wrapped up Christmas cookies and Sunday Roasts and Friday Night Dinners and movie marathons and clean showers and shampoo, into one, and poured it down her throat, until she sounded like a mother should.

"And this is my husband, Andrew; we're so so pleased that you made it safely." And there was a genuine smile, all for him. "Come on; let's go get your bags."

~~~OOO~~~

The house was beautiful. The drive from airport to beach to beautiful house was beautiful. The water looked beautiful. The playgrounds looked beautiful. Everywhere he looked, sea sun and sky were all beautiful. How was it even possible for such a perfect piece of beautiful to exist?

And then they pulled up in a large expansion of post whatever it was, pale yellow beauty. And his breath was taken away. "Welcome home Kurt."

And those words sounded beautiful, coming from Belinda's lips.

"Let's get you inside, introduce you to the rest of the gang."

And Kurt, really, truly, honest to God smiled, excited, scared yes, but excited for what the months may bring for him.

The threshold he stepped through took him to what felt like a whole other world. A house right on the beach, surrounded by the constant crashing of wave against shore, and the hoorahs of seagulls as they stole the sky. Of happiness of children, (Kurt wasn't fond of children though, but it added to the smile) and of feeling free. The house was designed in a way that was sort of supposed to be formal, but it wasn't really.

The black leather couches in the lounge room to where he was led, were matched to the beautiful ornate rug that reminded him of his mother's (bad thoughts, out, out!), and the photo frames that littered the room were of the same three beautiful smiling faces. Marking growth form naked baby in a bath to toothless curiosity in a picnic basket. Smiling first day of school photos, and sad last day of school photos. Awkward family photos that came with beers (YES!) in tow, and hilarious photos on some ride that looked scary as shit (he hated heights, remember). The photos couldn't help but make Kurt smile, and this room was beautiful. It felt homely, and warm, and like this family wouldn't hate him for the fact he was nearly killed or that he had a criminal record the size of a novel.

Andrew led the three children from the photos into the room, except they weren't children anymore. But Kurt knew that they weren't the sort of teenagers he'd come to be. Because that's why he was here, wasn't it? To be around 'good influences.' And God, these kids were pretty.

"Kurt, I'd like you to meet Amber – "She gestured to the clearly eldest girl, a pretty young woman with stars in her hazelnut eyes and a red bow in her darker-than-night hair. She had to be about the same height as Kurt, and the skirt she was wearing clearly made her look even older and much more beautiful than she already was.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, new baby brother." She sounded happy, good, sometimes, Kurt liked the happy people.

"And the twins – Emma and Blaine."

Kurt stopped dead when Blaine whipped his head up at the sound of his name. No matter how beautiful Emma was (really, she just looked like her sister), it was Blaine that took Kurt's breath away. (which was bad, oh so very bad). Blaine with his chocolate-you-could-drown-in-eyes. And his hair – curlier than Mr Squiggle. Blaine with his tight tight jeans (but they weren't really jeans, they cut off at his knees anyways, oh God, those knees.) Blaine with his perfect singlet tan that could only come from spending hours on the beach. Blaine with the pencil behind his ear (God, what that must taste like) and his perfect (cherry-red) lips. And his smell that smelt of –

But Kurt stopped himself.

"It's nice to meet you Kurt," and the beautiful boy with the beautiful voice and beautiful, more beautiful than the stars eyes, reached out to shake his hand.

And Kurt was just stuck. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't supposed to notice those things in boys anymore, was he? He promised himself in that moment to not, in any way, acknowledge Blaine in more than Andrew and Belinda bid him too. He couldn't bear to think those things about a boy when he was such a mess himself, especially one with a smile wider than the Grand Canyon and eyes brighter than the moon.

So he stuck with a "yeah, you too Blaine."

And that was that. And this house was beautiful. And the waves breaking sounded perfect, and the sun looked so nice and wonderful. And this place deserved exploring, but God, would he kill for a cigarette.

But Belinda seemed to notice the longing, and perhaps she picked apart his brain.

"Now Kurt," she began, "you know why you're here. So I'm going to lay down some ground rules for you, so that you can enjoy this little pocket of sun and surf for as long as you can."

Here we go, Kurt mentally prepared himself, daring to think how many of these rules he could break.

"Okay, so, first, absolutely **no** smoking. Not in this house, not at school, not even at the bins beside the supermarket, not on the beach, not at parties, not that there are any you'll be going to any time soon. There's no drinking, you may have a glass of wine on Saturday night dinners, and a beer perhaps at family barbeques, but that is it."

Kurt looked taken aback, and he couldn't help but notice Blaine watching him, and the smile marks that were etched on his face, somehow, Kurt believed Blaine had heard this one all before.

"No girls in your bedroom without the door open." Oh don't worry about that, Mrs Anderson. "And if you are going to be at any place but this house, you need to tell Andrew or myself. If neither of us are home, then Amber, Blaine or Emma need to be told."

That sounded somewhat reasonable, even thought Kurt knew he'd foget.

"And remember Kurt, you're here, because we want to help you, because your father and step-mother and step-brother want to help you. And you'll only get as much out of it, as you put in to it."

Belinda Anderson was wise.

"Now, you must be tired." Kurt hadn't realized how heavy his eyes were, funny. "Blaine, show Kurt to his room would you?"

Blaine nodded.

"Have a good sleep Kurt, and we'll see you when you wake up, give you the Royal Tour of Palm Beach." And she smiled that smile that made Kurt think of home, as Blaine helped him pick up his suitcases and bags and walk down the hall, lined with photos of grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles and cousins and family they'd forgotten they had. The furniture so beautifully fitted to the family that lived inside, and the beach that was always visible through the panes of glass scattered at perfect intervals.

Blaine opened a door, revealing to Kurt a space that was entirely his own. A double bed decked in a pretty, pale blue, the colour of a spring, was set in the middle. A closet – antiquely beautiful and ornate, for the clothes he'd bought. A bedside table with a lamp the same shade as the curtains that would hide the sun from his face in the morning – Kurt's favourite shade of lilac. And he'd never have thought that lilac and pale blue would become so pretty in a room together, but this was now Kurt's room, his home, and it made him smile.

Which made Blaine smile.

Which was nice, even though Kurt knew it would impossible to keep his promise and his eyes trained away from the chocolate when Blaine smiled like that. So he stuck with the awkward who-the-fuck-even-are-you-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-room attitude.

"yeah, I'm going to pass out now."

Blaine just laughed. God damn it. Kurt wanted to slap the beautiful features off that excuse for a teenage boy (but he wouldn't, 'cause that would be a crime he would never even want to commit.)

"Fair enough, anything I can get you." He had his eyes set straight onto Kurt's, not daring to look away. Maybe he was trying to show Kurt, that, 'I'm safe, you can trust me.' But kurt didn't want to. Cause boys with those looks in their eyes always ended up hurting you in the end.

"I'm okay, I think, thanks Blaine."

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, not sure how to get rid of the (significantly) shorter boy.

"I'll just go now." God – could Blaine red his mind too? Fuck, he was in trouble of the words played that easily onto his face.

"Thanks. Oh and Blaine – " Kurt tried to think about how to say this, if he even should say this.

But he went for it anyways.

But then Blaine just smiled a different smile, a waiting smile, a patient smile, a 'I got all the time in the world smile.' And Kurt didn't know what he'd been about to say.

"…well just. Um. Err, thanks."

And that was enough. And Blaine smiled again (fuck he had to stop that) and backed out of the room that was now Kurt's. Closing the door and leaving Kurt all alone to his head.

The ocean called him to sleep before the thoughts came out to play, and Kurt had never been so grateful.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N Sorry about the delay, exams start next week and I'm not very confident, so I wrote this over a collection of breaks from maths and biology. I finished it whilst on sleeping tablets again, so I probably don't like it. The first part is a dream sequence, just by the way, and I'm feeling really uninspired tonight. I don't think I'll get to update until at least next weekend, or maybe not till all my exams are over. Anyways, if you like what you read, or even if you don't, please review. Reviews and alerts make me smile (:**_

_**~~~OOO~~~**_

_There was all water, bluer than blue and crisper than crisp. And wind; nicer than nice as it moved through his hair, and sent chills from his spine to his toes. And sand; more perfect than perfect as he slunk back into it, and watched and felt the grains melt to meet his shape. _

_And there were birds, and fish, and squealing children – far off in the distance. And, most importantly, there was a smile planted so definitively on his face, his eyes a lighter shade and softer than butter. _

_Kurt knew all of this, he knew the way the wind made his hair go everywhere – but never break his perfect quiff, and the way his eyes lit up when another wave broke – because Blaine told him every so often, in the shell of his ear (which was delicious). _

_Oh that's right, because Blaine had his arms lazily, yet protectively around Kurt, and his lips were breathing heavily, whispering sweetly, into Kurt's ear. Never daring to break away from their perfection they had found in this little patch of sand, so close, yet so isolated from the rest of the world. _

_And Kurt seemed to notice how happy they both were, and how their smiles matched, so he cocked his head up (God that chin!) to tell Blaine that; "This is perfect baby, I love you." And that was that. It was Kurt and Blaine. _

_In love, and happy, and smiling, and willing to dance in the waves and drown if it meant that they would never leave their cove of warmth. Which was nice, because Blaine could spend forever looking into Kurt's eyes if they always sparkled that much. _

_And Blaine could spend forever kissing Kurt's lips if they always tasted that nice. And they whispered sweet nothings about how much the other made them smile more than anyone could ever imagine, and promising that nothing would every drift through the slightest space and separate their lips, or dull the sparkle of their eyes. They decided they could read each other's minds, because Kurt told Blaine how much he loved his smile and Blaine whispered 'your eyes are brighter than the sun' and sunk back happily, not daring to break apart, into the sand that would always be there to make them feel a part of something. _

Blaine bolted upright before the dream went any further south. Slapping himself because he'd promised himself, just before he entered sleep last night, that he would never think about Kurt's eyes and how nice his lips must taste ever again. But that dream was nice. And it wasn't a nightmare, as he was so easily accustomed to these days. It made him smile, just remembering the way his breath mingled with Kurt's as the sand moved lazily underneath them. And how pretty their words were when they realized just how much they both meant them.

But Blaine couldn't.

Blaine wouldn't!

Not when he had only met said boy for but a fleeting time yesterday, and not when he didn't even know if he was a straight line or gayer than a parabola. He liked that analogy, he decided.

"Blaine! Time to get up!" luckily his mother disrupted his confusion, to which he only sunk back under his doona.

Ugh, Blaine hated mornings.

~~~OOO~~~

"Wake wakey Kurt, time to get up sleepyhead, it's a new day out."

And the chirpy voice cracked the windows that let the sun stream through and hit his face in a full blow of surprise. Where the hell was he? The sun never hit him like that in his basement cave in the morning. But then again, he'd never had a woman with that voice sing a singsong to wake him up before she penetrated the room with the outside's glow.

Then he rolled over, the woman's face hitting him full force, blinded by the sun, he remembered.

"Oh right." He said out loud, as if that brought him that final bit of clarification. He was fucked up, that's right. And his father had had enough of him. That's right. And he'd been shipped away to Australia to straighten out. That's right. And there was Pamela. And then there was Andrew. That's right.

And then there was Amber, the young woman with the pretty eyes and lovely hair and nice clothes. That's right. And then there was Emma. The miniature (though really, she was the same age as him) version of Amber. That's right.

And then there was Blaine. That's right.

The boy with more curls than curly and eyes brighter than the suns of a thousand planets. With the voice of velvet and the laugh that could make the world so much happier again. That's right. That's right. Blaine. Blaine Blaine Blaine. It sounded so nice, in his mind on his tongue. And he remembered the dream he'd been having before the sun welcomed him to another fucking day.

Blaine and Kurt were holding hands on a pair of swings on the pretty beach, watching the sun rise, and whispering secrets.

But Kurt wanted to slap himself – that was a dream. Blaine was Blaine and most probably a very straight Blaine, and Kurt didn't even know if he was – and if he was if he wanted people to know – that he was, well, not straight. And having dreams about Blaine, perfect Blaine was not a good start.

But Belinda was still trying to rouse him from his perfectly contentious place in his mind, contemplating Blaine and whether or not he should try be happy today, or kick the bitch with the perfect son in the ba – face.

"Kurt, time to get up now sweet heart. Time to show you around."

Bur Kurt didn't want to. And he snapped. The wire in his head that kept him level headed most of the time, clearly hadn't had time to wake up and properly adjust to the morning, and he was therefore running off the 'violence is always the answer' ideology. Which was not a good mindset to have when your new 'mother' is trying to coax you out of bed and you think that kicking and slapping is the answer.

Kurt kicked her. He didn't mean to, he swore. It was just his stupid brain and its inability to control his actions anymore. And he hoped it wasn't as hard as he thought it might have been. Fuck. Kurt was in trouble now.

"Kurt." Her voice was sterner, no longer her early morning perky, but cross. Oh so cross, and hurt, which she probably deserved to be.

"Was that necessary?"

Kurt didn't acknowledge her, he just furrowed deeper into the pillows that made everything disappear. 'You're a screw up, remember that Kurt.' He mentally reminded himself. And told himself that today just wasn't the day that he was going to pigtail plait his hair and bake and skip around and be merry and sugary.

Kurt could feel Belinda towering over him, waiting for something; an acknowledgement perhaps. Or an apology. If Kurt was a nicer person he would have hugged her (he didn't hug people any more) and told her he hadn't meant to kick her – he just didn't do mornings.

But he didn't. Because he remembered all the times he'd kicked people, and it had become a second nature to him, and he didn't want to apologise for something he wasn't anymore. Especially when he was here, basically blatantly told by his own father that he was the biggest disappointment one could ever have as a son. Especially when he couldn't even remember his own name because he hadn't smoked or drunk anything in over two days. Ah, that's what he needed, he decided. A cigarette.

Perhaps, that would cool him down a little bit. Enough for him to snap out of the kicking and wanting to beat every human to the ground, especially those who were just trying to watch him get better.

But Kurt could bet that Belinda would never let him smoke, not when he was here trying to be a better person. Ugh. He hated being here, he decided.

"Kurt?" Oh, she was still waiting. And he wanted a smoke. And he had one, somewhere in his bag. But he would never get to his bag until he uttered the two words that would get him to said bag, to enjoy said freedom and relaxation.

"I'm sorry."

Huh, that's funny. Kurt semi- sort of meant that. He never meant apologies. Which was strange. Huh. He needed that cigarette damned right now before his brain started doing any other stupid fucked up thing.

But Belinda wasn't taking just that. And Kurt still wasn't getting out of bed.

"Kurt, get up, out of bed, get changed, and meet me in the kitchen. We're going to have a _little chat._" Kurt decided he didn't like the emphasis she put on the words _littlechat_ and decided that he probably wouldn't be getting any sort of liberation from his cigarettes until he'd dealt with whatever she had to say.

With a foreboding look at him, Belinda watched him nod his head – in acceptance and to signifiy he was getting up. And she turned around, with a final look that she hoepd screamed 'disappointment!' and left the room to see what her family; who would never ever treat her in such a way, were up to.

~~~OOO~~~

Somehow, Kurt managed to stumble out of his room a good fifteen minutes later, and Blaine couldn't help but laugh. The boy had his grey jumper on, backwards, and his navy blue track pants were clearly the wrong size for him. It made Blaine laugh, how adorable he looked with sleep in his eyes and that confused look on his face, but still with seemingly perfect hair. Hair he just wanted to run his fingers through –. But no! Chill! He told himself. He didn't want this to be any more awkward than the time his mother had walked in on his erm, 'private time'. Now, that was awkward. But it would be even more embarrassing if the boy-who-was-about-to-gey-into-big-trouble-for-kicking-Blaine's-mother had the ability to make him hard before he even finished his breakfast. So he stuck with a friendly greeting instead.

"Morning, Kurt, how'd you sleep?" he hoped his voice sounded as pleasant as it had in his mind.

Kurt cocked his head up, snapping out of his daze. Huh, that boy really was too pretty in the morning for words. Wait. No. He was ugly! Ugly and a waste of time and Kurt wasn't supposed to like people, least of all pretty boys with too much curl in their hair. Or boys at all. Well. And he shouldn't have had that dream last night and he knows it, he's just glad it wasn't as bad as it would probably seem if people ever found out he had had a dream about Blaine.

"Morning, yeah okay."

And that was that. Because it was too early in the morning for Kurt to do chit-chat. Especially when he was just trying to get the stupid boy out of his head. How was it even possible for him to be in there, when he'd only met him the night before, and they'd barely spoken.

But then, Kurt remembered the way his laugh pierced the air and made the sound of the waves seem insignificant in their beauty in opposition. Or the way his eyes smiled and the corners crinkled when he seemed to be happy. Or just the way he was so sublimely happy living in a family that had raised him to be a good boy.

Belinda breezed into kitchen through the open glass door, bringing her from the beautiful day outside, interrupting Kurt and Blaine's very private brain dealings. Thank God.

"Blaine. Out. Kurt and I need to talk."

Her voice was stern. Blaine and Kurt could both only guess she'd just relayed the story of what happened just before with Andrew, and had a certain idea of consequences that Kurt wasn't looking forward to very much. He figured he didn't really care.

But Blaine didn't move. And Kurt was surprised, especially at what came out of his mouth.

"I thought this whole idea was for me to be a good influence, as well as being a friend. Well, you're scary when you're mad, so Kurt could probably use a friend. Meaning, I'm staying."

Blaine said it so auspiciously that Kurt couldn't help but let his mouth gape. Blaine noticed and chuckled in a way that couldn't help but make Kurt's lips turn into a smile.

Sighing, Belinda continued.

"Kurt, I know you must at least know how difficult us taking you in is going to be, and has already been. We're doing you, and your dad and Carole and everyone else who wants you to be better a huge favour. And I'm not trying to talk ourselves up when I say that, because it's true. Your family ran out of things to make you a whole jigsaw again so they brought you to us, because we're pretty good at fixing broken kids."

When had Blaine taken Kurt's hand? Whenever it had been, his reassuring grasp made Kurt feel a little bit lighter, but a little bit more guiltier.

"I don't appreciate being treated like an anybody, Kurt. I'm trying to make you a better person, but I can't do that if you're not going to cooperate. Now sure, that kicking me could just be an excuse for you being a morning person, fine if it is, but a, violence isn't the answer to anything and b, I'm going to give you a second chance. And probably a third chance. Because I want you to be better. And I'm not going to ask you for much, except to let me, let Andrew and Blaine and Amber and Emma help you to be a better Kurt Hummel. Just, at least, please try."

There were tears welling in her eyes, and Blaine looked lost, and so did Kurt. But now, Kurt felt more guilty then he'd ever probably felt in his life.

And because it seemed like the right thing to do, and grasped Blaine's hand (it was a friendly and oh-so-reassuring way of reminding him he was still alive, and that maybe, he could be a better person if he so tried, which is a lot to communicate in a hand hold.)

"I'm sorry, Belinda, I really am. I promise you I'll be better."

But for now, Kurt couldn't decipher whether he meant it or not. He just didn't liked feeling guilty. Or without have a cigarette to make it feel a bit better. Or maybe a fuck. Maybe Blaine would be ever so inclined to make him feel a little bit b –.

"Thank you, Kurt. Now. I have to go to work, and I'm leaving it up to Blaine to show you around for a while, think you can handle that?"

And that's when Kurt looked at Blaine properly for the first time, straight smack bang into those eyes of his. And really truly analysed his every feature.

His eyes were a colour of caramel-that-melts-in-your-mouth that you could probably drown in if you stared at too long. And they were belted with the longest set of ebony eyelashes he couldn't possibly believe existed, and those perfect combinations of eyes and lashes were topped with eyebrows in a shape that shouldn't be so beautiful, but it was. And God, he could probably measure the angle on those tiny hairs on his forehead if he so had the time.

His skin was that beautiful shade of sunrise and sand and sun, and it looked so smooth, but prickled with the reminder that he wasn't a boy. Yesterday's stubble made his face look so much more mature, so much scruffier, and a god damned amount more sexier.

The perfect shape of his nose dipped down to that fulcrum that led to those lips that Kurt couldn't help but positively fix his own eyes on. So full, so pink, and he could only imagine how they'd feel when they were cherry red and pressed against his own. Those lips that emanated a voice that would make angels cry and the laugh that made waves seem so irrelevant in terms of beauty.

And his whole head was topped with a mop of curly black hair, so wild and carefree, and he just wanted to run his fingers through it. It was a beautiful reminder of the simple things, of how good chromosomes could be in producing such perfection in terms of hair.

But then again, Kurt decided, the whole of Blaine screamed perfection. And he really shouldn't have been staring at Blaine for so long (but not really that long, because wasn't it funny how readily Kurt could already recognise Blaine's beauty?)

But Blaine was too busy noticing the way Kurt's face all meshed together to realize how long it took for Kurt to respond to his mother. And Blaine was just in the middle of imagining how nice Kurt's lips would feel against his own when the boy spoke,

"Yeah, that should be fine."

And was that a…. was that a wink Kurt had given Blaine?

"Okay then, Blaine, why don't you take Kurt and show him the school, and the shopping centre, and where you play football and then take him to the beach, or whatever else you want to. Kurt, I don't want any bad reports. Be good for Blaine, and I hope you too become friends."

Kurt tried to put on his best who-the-fuck-is-this-kid-with-triangular-eyebrows and it seemed to work, because Belinda looked a little bit phased about leaving Kurt and Blaine to their own devices. Because they were so different, and she couldn't help but wonder if they'd get off on the right track, or if they'd even get off at well.

But there was no time to worry about that right now, because she had a day to attend to, and Kurt needed to take his own life into his own hands, and Blaine could probably help him the best.

After all, wasn't it true that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end?

And Blaine smiled, because he got to spend a day with the boy with pretty eyes, and he hoped he might be the reason for those cold rivers to finally smile.


End file.
